


I Found Myself (In Fiction)

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Anxiety, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10969131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Author!Au that no one wanted but I wrote anyway where Yuuri writes children's books and Victor writes classics.





	I Found Myself (In Fiction)

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just finished this like 10 seconds ago, so I apologize for any glaring errors.

Yuuri’s first Book Expo America is nothing short of terrifying. He’s not quite sure why he’s there, surrounded by authors he’s idolized for as long as he could read. He doesn’t think he belongs, surrounded by world builders and universe constructors. As a writer of children’s books, ones with bright pictures and simple words just long enough to trip up young tongues a little, the out of placeness is becoming a permanent fixture in his experience. The public doesn’t share his view, of course. 

 

Yuuri’s books are unique, with layered plots that make read-alouds interesting for everyone and characters that are so real they feel tangible. Phichit, his illustrator agrees, and shamelessly posts pictures of himself reading the books. Yuuri has decided that the only reason people read his books is because Phichit illustrates them so beautifully, putting effort and care into his art despite the demographic. The two make an excellent team. It is because of this that they have ended up here, at the Javits Center, sitting in fold-up chairs behind a table saying hello to the consumers of their books.

 

The books they produce together draw an audience beyond the age of five and six, attracting childless hipsters and appreciative parents. Art students hover near the table, barraging Phichit with an impressive assortment of questions. Phichit answers them all, a perfect balance between familiarity and politeness, before inviting them to take a selfie. On the left side of the table, where Yuuri is seated, young children are standing in an imperfect line, mixing with the older crowds. Yuuri is not as adept at handling the masses as Phichit, better at written communication than spoken. Still, he does his best, assuring a small boy that his favorite character will make it out of perilous danger and doling out tips to college age literature students on how to achieve believable characters in so few pages. It drags on, and Yuuri is beginning to feel overwhelmed, anxiety creeping into the corners of his mind. He wants to get out. The seat feels too small, the table too close, the people too loud. He keeps it under control, though, paying equal amounts of attention to his breathing and his fans. The end cannot come soon enough. 

 

He makes it, and when the last of the readers have trickled out and left him alone, he hurries to the bathrooms, giving Phichit a strained smile over his shoulder. He is twenty-one, and yet, here he is, close to tears in a bathroom stall. Nothing has changed since middle school. Yuuri is torn from his thoughts by a soft droning in his back pocket. It’s his mother. The drone pauses. A breath. It starts again. Yuuri picks up the phone, sliding his thumb over the warm glass front. “Hi, mom.” he says in soft Japanese, fighting for inconspicuous breaths. 

 

“Yuuri! How is everything there? Mari showed me pictures on her phone. It’s so big, Yuuri, much larger than anything back home!” Yuuri gives a quiet exhale, the sound almost affectionate. 

 

“Yeah, Mom, it’s huge. A lot of people, too. Listen, Mom, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. There are people lined up at my table.” His mother gasps quietly, delighted at the thought.

 

“Of course, Yuuri. I’ll let you go. Your father and I are so proud, Yuuri. Say hi to Phichit for us. We love you.”

 

“Love you too, Mom.” Yuuri says, pushing the red button in the middle of the screen. The smile drops. Yuuri is hit with a wall. He lets himself cry, dry, tearless sobs that shake his shoulders and hurt his throat. He sags forwards, the thoughts of “too much” are joined by overwhelming shame. Everything is too much and not enough. He is not good enough. A liar, a talentless son riding on the coattails of an illustrator who could be doing better without him. A burden. Yuuri is nothing and everything at the same time, it shouldn’t make sense, doesn’t make sense. He is nothing, nothing compared to everyone else. He is everything, everything wrong with his family, everything holding people back. He is the worst sort of selfish. It hurts, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth, his throat feels dry and rough, his temples throb, and his legs feel like overdone pasta. Yuuri is pulled out of his thoughts by a loud bang on the red stall door. He flies backwards, and stands, composing himself as best he can. He slides the lock with no small amount of trepidation and pulls the door towards him, opening it. The figure on the other side is short, slender, and young looking. He has chin length blond hair and a scowl on his lips. Yuuri recognizes him, Yuri Plisetsky, a young graphic novelist. His works aren’t quite produced on a large scale, but Yuuri has read them, and recognizes talent in his art. Yuri leans forwards and points an accusatory finger at Yuuri.

 

“We don’t need two Yuri’s under the same roof, and anyone pathetic enough to cry in a washroom stall should just retire already. Moron.” His voice gets louder, and it’s volume seems directly commensurable to the rapidly shrinking distance of his face to Yuuri’s. He turns, cheetah print shoes skidding on the tile floor as he makes his way towards the exit. Yuuri is left there, standing. He knows that even if he left the industry, there would be plenty of young authors who are just as talented, and maybe Phichit could work somewhere more respectable than with a children's book author, but Yuuri is the worst sort of selfish. 

 

He picks his way over the collective debris of thousands to where Phichit is waiting, smiling at his phone. “Ready to head back to the hotel, Yuuri?” Yuuri forces a smile and nods. 

 

“Yeah. Let’s go.” He replies, trying to keep his voice light. Phichit’s head cocks a little, the corners of his smile drooping. He knows something is wrong, but doesn’t press. Phichit is good like that. Too good for Yuuri, he thinks. Instead, he mentions something he thinks will cheer Yuuri up.

 

“Yeah, we better get back soon. Tomorrow is the last day of BEA and you’ll need to be rested up for our panel with Victor Nikiforov tomorrow.” Yuuri chokes on air.

 

Shit.

 

Yuuri wakes up early the next morning, rising before the sun. The panel begins in the early evening, and this allows him time to ponder over what awaits him in the coming hours. A panel, that’s okay, he can do those, and this one is with Phichit, his life line and his companion. This one is also with Victor Nikiforov, Yuuri’s idol since he read his first book, The Lilac Fairy.  Yuuri has idolized Victor for so long that he doesn’t seem to be real anymore. It’s fine, he’ll be fine. The panel is the largest of BEA this year, comprised of six authors including himself and Phichit. The others are Mila Babicheva, a well known dystopian author, Sara Crispino, a romance author with  an affinity for happy endings, Georgi Popovich, a Russian poet whose style changes depending on his love life (recently, his poems have held the theme of “love is a lie” and “heartbreak is inevitable”) and Victor Nikiforov. Victor Nikiforov writes every genre well, famous for surprise endings and beautifully constructed metaphors. He effortlessly balances style with substance, and wins the Russian booker award every year. His latest masterwork, _Stay Close To Me_ , was heartbreaking romance that left Yuuri in tears. Needless to say, he is not entirely calm leading up to the panel. 

 

Phichit nudges him to remind him that he need to walk up the stairs to the stage if he intends to get there. He does so, one foot in front of the other until he reaches the seat with a white card with his name printed on it in front of it, and sits. The authors are told to arrive with half an hour before the attendees appear to get everything in order, and many run out of things to do and socialize with the others. Yuuri doesn’t, almost ashamed of his books compared to everyone else’s. He stays in his seat, pulling out his phone when Phichit drifts off to talk to Georgi about his latest poem, _Carabosse_. He isn’t so engrossed in the screen that he doesn’t notice when Victor arrives, every step up the stairs accompanied by the click of expensive shoes on wood. 

 

Yuuri doesn’t expect to be able to breathe when he first sees Victor. He knows that Victor is objectively beautiful, he has posters of him all over his room, but seeing him in person is very different. It’s ironic because he can, in fact, breathe. He can breathe because Victor is as beautiful as the words he writes and the universes he builds. He possesses a very special type of beauty that doesn’t take your breath away, but gives it back to you. He’s the kind of person that so effortlessly balances charisma, intellect, and elegance that seeing him and hearing his voice feels like inhaling air clearer than anything else the world has to offer. Yuuri basks in the feeling. He’s so used to having words for everything, to using so many syllables to communicate, has built a career off of it. But this time, he can’t. He searches desperately for words to describe Victor, but he can’t. It’s terrifying. 

 

Thankfully, Victor only gives him a polite smile that manages to seem genuine and a “Hello” that carries the weight of a Russian accent before moving on to talk to Mila, his longtime friend. This small interaction leaves Yuuri flushed, and he doesn’t get the chance to respond. When Yuuri first discovered Victor, he decided that for many reasons, Victor was impressive. One of them was because English was his second language, but he wrote so beautifully in it. Yuuri writes his books in English too, because the potential audience is larger, but the feat doesn’t seem as impressive when you are writing for seven year olds. 

 

Yuuri leans forwards in his seat to see the fronts of the lined up white cards, relieved that Victor is sitting far from him.  The separation is not enough for Yuuri to ignore him, though, and pretends to be focused on his phone and not thinking about how his idol is standing in the same room as him, close enough that Yuuri can hear his conversation, the Russian outside of his comprehension. He wants to disappear and be present at the same time. Victor’s presence is a contradiction of itself, suffocating and freeing and it makes Yuuri want to get out.

 

The panel starts soon after, and most of the questions are directed at Victor. The group has been chosen as the best selling authors in their respective genres, and the audience is large. Victor answers questions about writing, talks about his dog, tells someone his favorite food, succeeds in describing the color purple without using any color names, and charms the room. The other authors get questioned too, but they mostly just enjoy Victor’s answers. The panel lasts three hours, longer than any other, and ends when it’s dark outside. The people filter out, squeezing out of the doors, and the authors stand and gather their things. Yuuri packs up in record time.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really have a plan for this, but another chapter in like two or three weeks? (Don't count on it, I'm unreliable and lazy.) Also, I have no idea how BEA works, and just sort of made it plot convenient, so excuse the lack of factual basis in this story. I am far from a perfect author, so I don't expect every comment (if anyone actually reads this) to be positive and I am immeasurably grateful for constructive criticism. Finally, I am lucky enough to not suffer from anxiety myself, so I apologize to anyone offended by how it's portrayed in this story.


End file.
